


Reveal

by veronamay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s01e12 Faith, Facial Shaving, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Pre-Slash, Protective Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-09
Updated: 2006-06-09
Packaged: 2018-01-12 16:02:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1191129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene from "Faith".  A random hotel room somewhere in Nebraska.  Sam is worried.  Dean isn't talking.  A connection must be made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reveal

The moment he stepped around the curtain and saw Dean, he went into denial. Just like that. His body froze up, he stopped breathing, his mind emptied of every thought except the word _no_.

No.

Dean saw him then, and made a weak crack about daytime TV, and that was enough to get Sam kickstarted again. Sound and movement came back; thoughts filtered in to take up their accustomed places.

And beneath it all, humming like a mantra: no.

It was not going to end like this.

There were few things that Sam held as constants in life. His longing for normality; opposition to his father's boot-camp tendencies; love for his family. But buried somewhere deep, a childhood leftover, was a bone-deep conviction that his brother was invincible. He knew it wasn't truth. He'd seen Dean broken and bleeding, in hospitals just like this one, too many times to believe otherwise. But the stubborn remnants of hero worship refused to die, and it was always a shock to see Dean like this.

Except Dean had never been _like this_ before.

Sam shut that thought out of his head, refusing to accept what the doctor told him. What _Dean_ was telling him. He made sure Dean was comfortable, and that the nurses' station had his cell number, and then he started hunting.

The next three days were a blur in his memory afterward. He slept in snatches, lived on vending machine food and drank coffee until it felt like his fingertips were crackling with tension. When his eyes ached and his legs cramped from sitting in front of the computer, he took breaks to do sit-ups and push-ups and lunges to keep his blood flowing. He called Dean twice a day, but he never left the hotel. He wasn't going to look at that too-pale face again until he knew how to fix it.

When Dean appeared at the door on the fourth day, Sam shied away from the relief he felt at seeing him upright and smirking the smirk of the successful hospital escapee. Of course Dean wouldn't just lie quietly and leave things to Sam; accepting his fate was one thing, actually staying put while it happened was another. But having Dean in front of him, sitting so still because he didn't have the energy to fidget, exhaustion edging every word, his skin translucent ... Sam didn't know how to cope with that. Dean had always been larger than life, as far back as he could remember. Now he was white-faced and shaky and flapping irritably at Sam's attempts to help even as he leaned into his body to cross the room. Dean felt cold, as if ...

"You're not going to let me die in peace, are you?" Dean asked.

Sam throttled the urge to hit him.

"I'm not going to let you die, period. We're going."

* * *

It was a two-day drive to Nebraska. It took them five days to get there because Dean couldn't sit comfortably in the Impala for more than a couple of hours. Sam said nothing, only maxed out another MasterCard to book them into hotel rooms with beds that didn't feel like concrete slabs. His buried fear climbed a little higher when Dean didn't argue about it, but lay down at every opportunity and fell so deeply asleep it looked like coma. Sam took to checking his vitals every hour, taking his temp and pulse rate, laying his hand on Dean's chest to feel his heartbeat. It was irregular, but still strong. How could it still feel so strong?

On the fourth day of the drive, Sam sat against the headboard of another three-star hotel bed and watched over his brother. Dean lay a hand's width away, his breathing shallow and laboured. He coughed occasionally, his lips edging from pale to blue. Sam waited for the colour to fade, refusing to acknowledge it any more than he had to, refusing to admit that _pale_ was a better choice under the circumstances. At the same time he catalogued every breath, every twitch, memorised every line and curve of his brother's face. Just in case.

It was an invasion of privacy, but when had they ever had much of that? Dean knew Sam in almost every extremity, from anger to pain to sorrow. Dean was the one Sam had always turned to, and Dean hid nothing from him until Sam turned fourteen and started questioning their father's orders. Then it was like an iron curtain dropped between them, and it only weakened when Sam took the time to break it down. Eventually he'd just stopped trying and started looking in the other direction.

Now he was seeing Dean for the first time in years, really seeing him, and all he could see was weariness. Dean was _tired_ ; so tired he couldn't stand unaided for more than a minute. So tired Sam could almost feel his brother wanting to let go. But Dean's fuck-you spirit was still there under the surface, and that was where Sam was laying his bets. He saw it in Dean's eyes, still sharp and direct and hard, and heard it in his voice, underneath the weakness. Dean would die if he had no other option, but he didn't _want_ to.

Sam reached out and laid his fingers lightly on Dean's forehead, the skin cool and clammy under his hand. He traced down the side of Dean's face, over raspy stubble and straight nose and lips that weren't red enough, trailing his knuckles over knife-edge cheekbones dusted with freckles. Sam's throat closed up as Dean murmured something unintelligible and brushed at his hand, pushing deeper into the pillows. He clenched his hand into a fist and drew back, leaving Dean to his rest.

When Dean woke up, Sam was across the room, eyes locked on the laptop screen. His right hand was on the mouse; his left was still clenched, fingernails biting half-moons into his palm.

"time 'sit?" Dean dragged himself into a sitting position and rubbed his face, coughing raggedly into a tissue.

"About four." Sam forced his hand to relax and winced as blood flowed back into his fingertips.

"I slept for _five hours_?"

"Must be all those years of debauchery catching up with you."

Sam looked up when Dean laughed. He hadn't heard that sound in a while. Dean was grinning at him, dark circles still prominent under his eyes, fatigue shadowing every movement – and Sam couldn't look away. Dean was a pretty man; anyone could see that. But right now, on the edge of mortality, stripped of every artifice, he was beyond pretty, beyond handsome. He was perfectly, beautifully _clear_. Sam looked at his brother and felt such a fury of love for him that he choked.

"Hey," Dean said in an affronted voice. "I know I'm not at my peak here, but you don't have to make it that obvious."

He sounded so put out, and that was so very far from the truth, that Sam couldn't help but laugh. He felt tears prickling behind his eyes and fought to bring himself under control, because he was _not_ going to cry about this; those would be wasted tears, and he had better things to do. He cleared his throat, focused on Dean, and cast about for a rejoinder.

"Dude, you really need a shave," he said. "You're starting to look like Grizzly Adams after a week-long bender."

Dean shuddered. "God, that's revolting. Keep your tacky eighties TV fantasies to yourself, man." He started digging through his duffel nevertheless, pulling out his shaving kit. Once he got it open, he sat staring at the contents for so long Sam thought he'd fallen asleep sitting up.

"Dean?"

"Yeah." Dean didn't move. He sighed, and looked from the kit to Sam, faint colour staining his cheeks with false health.

"I, uh, might need a little help here."

"What's the problem?"

Dean put down the kit and held out his hands, palms down. Sam could see them trembling from across the room.

"Fatigue's a silent killer, isn't that what they say?" Dean pursed his lips and folded his hands into his lap. "I'm a life-on-the-edge kinda guy, Sam, but I'm not suicidal."

He cocked his head and picked up the straight razor, offering it to Sam.

"Give a guy a hand, will you?"

* * *

Sam approached him and took the razor as though it were a live cobra. It was one of the few family heirlooms they'd kept, mostly because it was portable. Their father gave it to Dean when he was sixteen. Sam had never used it; he could shave with an ordinary razor, but Dean had the heavy Winchester beard. Ordinary razors wilted before it.

Sam remembered countless mornings when he'd perched on the side of the tub in the bathroom, watching Dean shave. He'd liked seeing fresh smooth skin appear from the white lather, a blade making something beautiful for once.

When he was finished, Dean used to bend down and get Sam to double-check the job for him. It was always perfect, but Sam would always make sure, and Dean would always let him.

Dean cleared his throat. Sam started out of his reverie, looking at him. Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Not getting any younger here, Sammy."

Or older either, unless they found a miracle. Sam locked that thought away with all the others and opened the blade, checking the edge even though he knew it would be ... well, razor-sharp. Dean made an offended noise, but Sam ignored him, flicked the blade shut and took the kit into the bathroom to set up.

A minute later he sat Dean on a chair before the sink and handed him a brush to lather up.

"I thought this was a full service salon," Dean griped as he wielded the brush. Sam smacked the back of his head lightly.

"Full service costs extra. As in, actual _money_ , not smartass commentary."

"Sam, you dog." Dean's smile was still dangerous, even coated in white. "I never thought you had it in you. What does a full service from Sam Winchester entail, exactly?"

"Dean!" Sam smacked him again, ignoring the flush that swept over him. "Did you just hit fourteen and stop maturing or something?"

"Probably. Adulthood is boring, dude." Dean settled back in the chair and lifted his chin, staring upside-down at Sam and the razor, as if having second thoughts. "Now would be a good time to remember what an awesome brother I am, Sammy."

"Now would be a good time to stop calling me _Sammy_ , Dean."

Dean just grinned up at him and closed his eyes like he hadn't a care in the world. Sam grinned reluctantly back, unfolding the razor again and stropping it on a leather strap. Then he took a careful breath, willed himself to steadiness, and set the blade against Dean's skin.

It was weird, watching his hands on Dean's face, tilting and moving it at different angles and seeing Dean comply without question. It felt intimate, and vulnerable; he was very conscious of the fact that Dean had literally put himself in Sam's hands with a knife at his throat. The Winchesters weren't a touchy-feely breed, but right now Sam was getting a damn good idea of just how much Dean trusted him. It felt like coming in from the cold.

Sam was a Winchester. He didn't say anything, didn't move to hug Dean or kiss him or even grab his shoulder. He stayed silent, drawing the blade over the taut pale skin of his brother's face, taking away stubble and soap and leaving something new and clean behind. He was cautious, his touch delicate and slow, saying everything and nothing. He tested every inch of bare skin afterward, as he used to, and felt Dean's face curve in a smile under his fingers.

When he was done, Sam put down the razor and reached for a towel soaked in warm water. He wrung it out and draped it over Dean's face, letting him clean off the last traces of shaving cream while Sam rinsed out the sink. Dean scrubbed the towel over his face, waving one hand around for another. Sam grinned at his flailing and handed him a dry towel, ghosting his fingers through Dean's hair as if by accident. Dean went still for a moment, a ripple of immobility, then pulled the towel off and stood up to admire his newly-shaven face.

"Nice, Sammy," he said, leaning close to the mirror. "You did a good job. Ever think about doing this professionally?"

He smiled at Sam via the mirror, an honest-to-God wide-open smile, packing up the shaving kit and leaving the bathroom before Sam recovered from the impact. Sam stood gazing into the mirror at his own blank expression for several long moments, swallowing against a lump in his throat, his own breath coming a little faster than normal.

Winchesters didn't hug, and they didn't talk. But they found ways to communicate nevertheless.

It wasn't until he could focus again that he realised: when he got up out of the chair, Dean's hands weren't shaking. Not even a little bit.

Sam turned on his heel and followed his brother back into the bedroom.

END


End file.
